


Rose to Red

by escspace



Category: Noblesse (Manhwa)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-08 09:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21473935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escspace/pseuds/escspace
Summary: “Sir Raizel will see you now.”A 50 Shades of Grey AU that actually has nothing to do with 50 Shades of Grey.
Relationships: Cadis Etrama di Raizel/Frankenstein (Noblesse), Frankenstein (Noblesse)/Ragar Kertia, Frankenstein/Ragar Kertia/Cadis Etrama Di Raizel
Comments: 21
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

Frankenstein spun around in his chair in his home office like a child in a brief respite from looking at the grant paperwork for his research at Ye Ran University. He sighed as he put on his glasses once again. If he had known that the life of an academic consisted of such tedious business as bureaucracy, perhaps he would have pursued a career in the private sector instead. Just then, his cellphone rang, giving him another excuse to not do paperwork. He answered.

“Hello?”

“Are you busy next Monday?”

“It’s a non instructional day, so I’d imagine I’d have some time. What do you need, Ragar?”

“There is a kickboxing event I can’t miss, but I have an important interview for a piece for the journal at the same time: Cadis Etrama di Raizel, CEO of AuRa.”

Frankenstein held the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he rummaged around for a spare piece of paper and a pen. “That’s some name,” he said as he wrote it down. He huffed. “You’re really going to make me do this just so you don’t miss your fighting event? Is beating people up that important to you?”

“Yes. I have the questions already. I’ll send them to you. Just ask him what I’ve written then send me the audio file of the interview. It’ll be next Monday, two o’clock. I’ll text you the address.”

“I haven’t even said yes yet, Ragar, and you’re already throwing all this stuff at me.” Frankenstein’s expression furrowed with friendly enough exasperation.

“Are you not going to do it?”

“...No, I’ll do it, but you owe me one.”

“I’ll take you out to dinner, wherever, on me, next weekend.”

“I’ll be sure to pick something expensive then,” Frankenstein said.

* * *

The tower was steel and glass, like many other business towers. Miraculously, the whole thing seemed polished to a shine, reflecting the gray-blue of the sky. Frankenstein, dressed in a black suit, fit in well enough with the other black-suits bustling in the hum and grandeur of business and money. In the lobby, he was confronted by the tall, ostentatious form of a golden double-helix sculpture. At the top of the helix was a bird—a phoenix perhaps—spreading its wings widely as if to welcome all who passed through those automatic glass doors into its personal heaven—or perhaps it was hell.

He checked in with some person at some desk, also steel and glass and polished with wealth (and the desk was nice too), and, after some waiting around, Frankenstein was escorted to the top floor, the elevator practically rocketing upwards into the stars hidden behind sunlight.

Again, he waited around. Frankenstein took a seat on a white leather couch and scrolled through the latest news in science and technology on his phone: black hole pictures, quantum computing, surgery robots. At two-fifteen, he was called by a woman dressed stereotypically corporately, like everyone else in the building he had seen thus far.

“Sir Raizel will see you now.”

Frankenstein nodded his thanks, opened the door, and stepped inside.

His back was to him, his silhouette lit by the wide window that stretched ceiling to floor and wall to wall. Silently, he was watching the world out there, all the people and the cars and the clouds that leisurely passed by without ever noticing a single man behind a single window. In that moment, Frankenstein thought he looked terribly lonely.

Raizel turned around, a small, delicate motion, his shoes even hesitating to make sound. “You must be Mr. Frankenstein,” he said, voice quiet and deep, almost to a rasp.

“I am,” Frankenstein said. He looked back at him for a lingering moment; then, he stretched out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Sir Raizel.”

A brief turning emotion passed beneath his eyes. “Just Raizel will do.” He walked forward, also reaching out a hand, but before they could properly exchange a handshake, a loose black shoelace enacted its dastardly plan. Raizel’s step stuttered and he tilted, unbalanced, towards the hard marble floor.

Frankenstein lunged forward and caught him by the arm before he could smash his pretty face to smithereens.

“Oh—” Raizel only stared forward, wide eyed. Then, his face took on a rosy hue. “My apologies,” he said as he straightened, averting his gaze in embarrassment. “Um, thank you...Mr. Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein looked at him, rather amused. He offered a soft, sympathetic chuckle. “Please, just Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein,” Raizel repeated, nodding, yet still not making eye contact. He brushed out his still straight pristine white suit jacket in an attempt to collect himself and appear as cool and suave as a wealthy business man should.

Frankenstein smiled. “Then, shall we begin?”

* * *

That evening, Frankenstein clicked away at his computer. His email read:

Attached is the interview. Most boring guy I’ve ever met. You’re taking me for drinks at the White Horse, Saturday.

Best,

Frankenstein

* * *

A sandwich from one of the many local cafes in hand, Frankenstein made his way to the university’s botanical garden and found a bench beneath the shade of a tree to sit on and enjoy lunch in the lukewarm afternoon after another uneventful lecture. A soft breeze teased his hair into his face as he was eating, and so Frankenstein had to inelegantly pull his hair out of his mouth. As he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and patted any stray strands back into place, he spotted a white clad figure underneath the decorative pale violet wisteria flowers hanging downwards like ornaments. The figure spotted him back and recognition brightened the man’s features.

Raizel looked around, as if checking if there were any prying eyes in the vicinity before approaching.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Mr. CEO,” Frankenstein said, taking another bite of his turkey avocado sandwich—whole wheat bread, of course.

“Oh, I...also did not expect to see you here.”

“I work here.”

“Oh.” A pause. “That is nice.” He looked at the clearly empty seat next to Frankenstein. “Is this seat taken?”

“No, go ahead.” Frankenstein wiped his mouth with a flimsy napkin and shuffled around the contents of his black messenger bag for his water bottle. He took a sip. “So what brings you to campus?”

Raizel looked down at his hands as if there was nothing better to look at. “I was just visiting. I was a student here.”

“Really now.” Frankenstein was pleasantly surprised.

Raizel nodded earnestly at him. “I studied history and literature but then ended up going to the school of business,” he said with a sudden conviction, as if he must convince Frankenstein that this was true. Then, his voice softened again and he withdrew into himself shyly, almost melancholic. “It made the family happy.”

“But do you like it, what you do now?”

Raizel turned and looked at Frankenstein with a bewildered innocence, like that was the most peculiar, startling question he had ever been asked. There was a long silence between them. “I...like it,” he said unconvincingly, and they both knew it.

Frankenstein smiled wryly at him. He looked forward, leaning back into the bench and resting his arm casually on it as he gulped down a healthy amount of water from his bottle. “Whatever you say.”

“Frankenstein,” Raizel began. “I want to apologize.”

Then, it was Frankenstein’s turn to look bewildered. His eyes alone asked the question, ‘What in the world for?’

“For the interview,” Raizel answered, as if reading his mind—or perhaps the email he had sent to Ragar. “I wasn’t very helpful or engaging. Not to mention...I would have fallen flat on my face, had it not been for you.”

This was ridiculous, Frankenstein thought. He was wrong; Raizel was not the most boring guy he had ever met. He was one of the most absurd. Frankenstein laughed out loud. “Oh my _ god. _ That’s nothing to apologize for.” Raizel spoke and acted like someone who learned social interaction from old textbooks. His handsome, youthful face would have implied a colorful social life, but his demeanor was of a hermit, or perhaps a fairytale princess who had been trapped in a tower all of her life. Frankenstein felt, then, a sort of pity for him. “Hey, I’m going to grab a drink with a friend this weekend. Care to join?”

“A drink?”

“At the White Horse, Saturday evening, seven o’clock.”

“Oh…” Raizel’s eyes fell. There was a distant despondency in his expression. “I would love to, and I appreciate the invitation, but I have business to attend to at that time.”

“Hm, a shame.” Frankenstein sighed easily. “Maybe some other time then. Want to exchange numbers?”

Raizel blinked at him. They looked at each other, and Raizel watched him like this was so very significant and astounding. Then, he smiled, softly and genuinely, perhaps for the first time Frankenstein had seen him. “Yes, I would like that.”

They did so and sat together in silence until Raizel suddenly said, “This garden, it’s named after my family.”

“‘Raizel’ isn’t your first name?”

“It’s all my first and last name, but ‘Raizel’ is common to the family. We donate to the university every year.”

“Oooh, rich boy,” Frankenstein teased. “I guess I know who’s funding my lab now.” He chuckled at the lame joke, but it earned him another quiet smile from Raizel nonetheless, and Frankenstein found himself appreciating it.

“I’m thirty-eight, you know,” Raizel said in rebuttal.

“I’m sorry?” Frankenstein blinked. He blew air out his nose. “I guess I’m the boy then. You’re two years older than me, but you look like a college kid.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Dermatologists must hate you.”

The joke flew right over Raizel’s head. He only looked at Frankenstein cluelessly. “Why...would they hate me?”

Frankenstein’s expression crinkled in amusement. “Nevermind, it’s nothing,” he laughed, sharing a joke with himself as his lunch hour leisurely drew to a close.

* * *

The next day, when Frankenstein made his way to the garden bench again to have lunch, Raizel was already there waiting for him. They greeted each other more easily this time.

* * *

“Try not to get wasted this time,” Ragar said as Frankenstein opened the door to the passenger seat of Ragar’s shiny black Mercedes Benz convertible.

Frankenstein settled in and shut the door with a firm thud. “No promises.”

“You almost got into a fistfight with some thugs the last time we went out for drinks,” Ragar recalled.

Frankenstein chuckled. “But I can always count on you to save my ass, right?”

Ragar sighed and tugged at his mask as he pulled the car out of the driveway. “Right…”

* * *

Ice clinked against glass as Frankenstein swirled around his likely fourth glass of whiskey, among other things, staring at the amber liquid as it went around and around. “Let me tell you, this guy, Raizel, he looked like the saddest sap during that interview. But I’m wondering, how can you look that sad when you’re that rich?” He leaned back and easily downed the rest of the burning alcohol. “Money can’t buy you happiness, my ass. If I were that rich, I’d fund my own research, be done with all that nonsense paperwork.” By now, a parade of empty glasses had gathered around Frankenstein at their table, but there was only a single empty one by Ragar. “You’re just drinking the one orange juice?”

“Frankenstein, I’m driving.”

“Oh, right.” He sighed, his breath heavy with the scent of alcohol. “You know what he said to me when I asked him about the path to his success? What am I saying? Of course you know; you have the interview. But he said, ‘I was born into wealth, and money begets money.’” Frankenstein laughed. “Honestly, I was impressed. He’s not very good at conversation, but at least he’s honest.” After catching the attention of a server and placing an order for two more drinks, both for himself, Frankenstein said, “So, how’d the kickboxing go? You break anyone’s bones?”

“Just a few,” Ragar said, looking very demure and quietly proud of himself.

“Congrats.” Frankenstein looked down at his empty glass as if he had forgotten it was empty, and a look of disappointment crossed his face. He placed the glass down to wait patiently for the follow-up drinks. “So they let you god-blooded compete now, huh.”

Ragar nodded.

“Must be a spectacle. So did you win?”

“Second place. Erga Kinesis di Raskreia got first.”

“Wow, must be good to beat you, of all people.”

Ragar nodded at this as well, taking the compliment in stride. “She was indeed impressive.”

“You’re good too, you know…” Frankenstein had begun slurring his words, and he smiled at Ragar lazily.

Ragar looked at him. “You are complimenting me. You’re drunk.”

“Fine...fine...Just a few more drinks, and I’ll be done.”

Ragar stared at him with the confidence of a cop watching a drunken man attempting to walk in a straight line. That was to say, he found Frankenstein completely disbelievable.

Nonetheless, Frankenstein promptly got his two further drinks, a Manhattan Cocktail and a vodka tonic, and by the time he finished them, plus a couple more, he was looking rather sleepy. Suddenly, he stood up, wobbling only a little. “Bathroom…” he murmured, and shuffled away, leaving Ragar alone at the dimly lit table.

Feeling a little warm and fuzzy as he washed his hands for perhaps a little longer than necessary, Frankenstein thought to get some cold, fresh air by stepping outside for a moment. The streetlights were bright and blurred to his eyes, and he squinted at them as he braced a hand against the wall, his body threatening to tip over. Sighing, he reached for his phone in his pocket. He thought to save Ragar the trouble of driving them both home by calling a ride for himself. He scrolled through his contacts, looking for Ragar’s name to inform him of his plans. It just so happened that Ragar and Raizel shared the first two letters of their names, and so Frankenstein, in his clumsiness, tapped on Raizel’s instead.

“Hello? Frankenstein?” was the soft voice on the other end.

“Who else would it be? You don’t have to drive me home. I’ll call a car,” Frankenstein said, words running messily into each other. He bent his head in a sudden rising nausea, raising a hand to cover his mouth. “Uh…”

“Frankenstein, are you okay? Are you drunk? Who are you with?” He sounded very, very worried, his words also running into each other but with clear urgency rather than languid intoxication.

“What are you talking about? I’m with you. Well...no, I’m outside.”

“I’ll come get you. Are you still at the White Horse?”

“Yeah, I’m still here.”

“I’ll be there shortly, Frankenstein.”

“Oh...okay…” Frankenstein, thinking Ragar was being awfully nice, leaned his back against the wall and waited in the chilled night.

It was, indeed, shortly after that someone arrived in a shiny black car that looked enough like Ragar’s to pick him up. He hurried over to Frankenstein and placed a tender, worrying hand on his shoulder like he knew him as Frankenstein stumbled off of the wall. “Ugh…” Frankenstein bent down. Still supported by his shoulder, he heaved and spat, making his expression and the ground ugly and gross. When he looked up, a sour, rancid taste in his mouth, he had enough sense to recognize the expensive white suit in front of him. “Raizel…? What are you doing h—“ He couldn’t raise his hand fast enough to cover his mouth and ended up dirtying Raizel’s clothes in the most embarrassing of ways, also splattering his mostly dissolved dinner onto the sidewalk.

Raizel, however, didn’t seem to mind getting vomited on as much as he minded Frankenstein wobbling and being barely coherent. Even in his swimming vision, Frankenstein could see the intense worry creasing the man’s face as he looked up.

“Oh...sorry...sorry…” Frankenstein whispered.

“Let’s go,” Raizel said and led him by the arm to his car. He opened the passenger door for him and gently guided Frankenstein inside.

Grateful to be seated, Frankenstein relaxed back and closed his eyes.

“Where should I take you?” Raizel asked, but Frankenstein was already passed out and provided no answer other than the sound of his shallow breathing.

Raizel looked at him, a simultaneously concerned and endeared expression on his face. He drove off into the night.

* * *

After being left alone for twenty minutes, Ragar paid for the drinks, got up, and searched the restrooms. There were only strangers in there, so he checked outside, and there, too, were only strangers. He reached for his phone, and attempts to call Frankenstein were only answered by a robotic, “Please leave a message.”

He stared into the darkness of the night.

“...Fuck,” Ragar said.


	2. Chapter 2

Frankenstein squinted against the light. He rubbed his face with both hands and pressed his palms against his eyelids, feeling the incessant knock of a headache against his skull. Blindly, he reached for his phone, which had been placed on the bedside table. It was seven AM. Ragar had called and messaged him no less than twenty times. Frankenstein, finally, called back.

“Oh my g—” A deep, long sigh from the other side of the line. “You just disappeared last night. I looked everywhere. Thought you could have gotten mugged or stabbed or were passed out in some alleyway. Drove around for hours looking for you. I’m _ still _driving. I was about to go to the police to report a missing person.”

“Hey, slow down. I just woke up.”

“Why didn’t you give me a call or text me?”

Frankenstein furrowed his brows. “What are you talking about? I did.”

“No. You did not,” Ragar said like he was very much done with Frankenstein’s nonsense and that he was going to beat his ass the next time they saw each other. In all honesty, Frankenstein was likely at this moment, safer away from Ragar than with him. Ragar sighed again, deflating, sounding like he was trying very hard to quell the irritation vibrating in his soul. “Did you get home safely?”

“Good question...” It was then that Frankenstein decided to sit up and take a proper look around at the large pristine bedroom. A fantastic view of the waking city below took up one of the walls entirely. It was clearly not his room, and the light blue silk he was wearing was also clearly not his pajamas, the shirt tight around his shoulders and completely unbuttoned and the pants too short. “I don’t know where I am,” he finally said.

“_ What?” _

There was the quiet click of the door opening. Raizel stepped inside, a fresh, cold glass of orange juice in hand, condensation dripping down onto his pale, delicate fingers.

A little startled, Frankenstein immediately hung up.

They stared at each other like deer in headlights.

“Hi,” Frankenstein said.

“Hi,” Raizel said.

Then, Frankenstein realized that he was barely dressed and quickly tugged the shirt around himself but was unable to button it across his chest. He coughed into a fist. “Is this your room?” he asked.

“It’s the guest room.” Raizel walked over and placed the glass down on the table. “For you,” he said. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Can I ask, what happened last night?”

Raizel looked at him, an unreadable consideration on his face. “You drunkenly called me, and I picked you up in my car. You had passed out before I could find out where to take you, so I took you to my apartment.”

Frankenstein tugged at the shirt he was wearing. “And...my clothes?”

Raizel glanced away, blushing a little. “They were ruined...so I threw them out and dressed you in something more comfortable. I apologize for intruding on your privacy in such a way, but I couldn’t leave you to sleep in such a state.”

Frankenstein blinked at him, taken aback by Raizel’s forward hospitality. For a rich guy, he wasn’t so bad, but, “I have no clothes…?”

Raizel shook his head with an unusual vigor. “I bought you new ones. Hopefully, they will fit you better than what you are currently wearing. I tried to match what you previously had as closely as I could. They’re in the bathroom, whenever you’re ready.”

“Wow, that’s…” Frankenstein lowered his head, his hair falling into his face. Perhaps it was covering the slow warmth rising in his cheeks. Then, he looked up and into Raizel’s eyes with a clear, straightforward conviction. “Thank you, Raizel,” he said with all of his confidence.

Instantly, Raizel brightened. He smiled at him as if Frankenstein had said something Raizel had been wanting to hear for decades. A simple appreciation seemed to make him unreasonably happy. Raizel looked, in that moment, like someone who had starved for such simple human things, and Frankenstein was the first to feed him in a long time.

“I hope I didn’t cause you too much trouble last night.” Frankenstein’s voice was full of apology. He was, admittedly, rather embarrassed by the entire ordeal, to be picked up, dressed, and tucked into bed while he was in a drunken stupor.

Raizel stared at him, and, with not a hint of malice or any sort of emotion, told him that, “You threw up on my shirt and shoes.”

“Oh…” The color drained from his face. Slowly, Frankenstein wondered if he should go die in a hole now or later.

Frankenstein asked for the address of the place before Raizel left him in the room to gather and dress himself. As he dried his dripping wet hair with a towel after a much appreciated shower, he texted Ragar his location.

‘I’m coming to pick you up,’ Ragar texted back, no questions.

Then, Frankenstein turned to the bag of newly bought clothes. Now, Frankenstein was by no means poor, and he had a few pieces that were by no means cheap, but Raizel had gone out of his way to buy him Burberry, of all things. The blue striped polo shirt, tan slacks, and dark navy twill jacket easily amounted to well over five thousand dollars. Everything fit him as if it were all tailored, but he could not help but feel a little guilty about covering his body with so much money. Nonetheless, when he glanced into the mirror, he liked how it all looked on him. He would have to make it up to Raizel somehow for being so generous.

Frankenstein picked up the glass of orange juice as he stepped out of the room and took a healthy gulp only to be struck by how sweet it was. His face scrunched; he could feel the cavities start to form from the pound of sugar that had been dumped into the drink and set the glass down on the long glass table Raizel was seated at and watching him from. There were two large paper bags with the logo of an Emille’s Cafe at the center of the table.

“Do you have an appetite?” Raizel asked. “I bought some breakfast.” He stood up and started pulling food out of the bags, arranging it all neatly before Frankenstein. “I didn’t know what you would like, so I got a variety.”

Frankenstein watched this all take place with a sort of awe. Raizel was being so nice as if his life depended on it, as if he was trying to woo Frankenstein, but perhaps that was inaccurate. It wasn’t so much that he was trying to win Frankenstein over, but more like he was afraid of Frankenstein having a bad impression of him from the interview and that he feared he would not be able to have another person in his company again if that were true. Simply, he just wanted Frankenstein to have a good time, and it appeared as though he thought ‘a good time’ meant spending a lot of cash. Frankenstein had looked at Emille’s before, and he had looked at their prices. Raizel dressed him like a prince and fed him like a king. It all felt so very saturated to him.

But still, the food had already been bought, and Frankenstein took a seat at the table, and they dined together. Or rather, Raizel dined while Frankenstein inhaled food—bread, soup, eggs, meat—like some kind of wolf-creature. He still kept his manners though—no elbows on the table. Frankenstein tossed the rest of the far too sweet orange juice down his throat like he was doing shots and then politely dabbed his lips with a monogrammed dusty-blue linen napkin, content and full.

Raizel smiled at him finishing his meal like watching someone eat food was the most spectacular thing he’d ever witnessed. He watched Frankenstein as if Frankenstein meant something to him, as if this was friendship that he could not afford to lose, even if he could afford the fanciest clothes and food and top floor penthouse apartments. “I can take you to wherever you need to be, Frankenstein,” Raizel offered.

Frankenstein waved his hand both dismissively and apologetically. “You’ve done so much for me already. I really shouldn’t bother you any further.”

“It is no bother,” was Raizel’s quiet protest.

“My friend’s already on his way to pick me up.”

Raizel had a very good poker face, but at this, Frankenstein could see the slight droop in his eyes. The poor rich man was disappointed. “I see,” he said. Suddenly, he leaned forward, about to say something with an anticipation that implied it was important to Raizel, but he settled down again with no further words about it.

“Raizel, really, thank you.” Frankenstein chuckled warmly. “God, I can’t believe you got all of this for me” — he tugged at his jacket and looked at the food — “It’s all...so much. You’ve treated me like a princess. I’ll have to make it up to you someday.”

“There is nothing to make up. Your company is enough.” The man said this all with almost childlike earnestness concentrated in every word he hoped deeply Frankenstein would find sincere. Raizel wanted to be so very sincere.

Frankenstein smiled, taken aback, and he watched Raizel like he was suddenly very interesting. Then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

‘I’m here,’ the text read.

“He’s here,” Frankenstein said.

* * *

“You look happy. Are those new clothes? Did you disappear last night to go shopping?”

The seatbelt clicked as Frankenstein buckled himself in. “Raizel bought these for me.”

_ “Raizel? _” Ragar, both hands on the wheel, stared at Frankenstein, bewildered. “This is his place? You spent the night at rich Raizel’s rich penthouse?” Carefully, he turned the car away from the curb. “You’re fucking your way to the top now, Frankenstein?”

Frankenstein scoffed. “Shut up. Nothing happened.”

“How would you know? You didn’t even know that you didn’t call me last night.” The car purred comfortably down the street. “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

“I woke up in his pajamas.”

The car jolted as Ragar slammed on the brakes at a red light. “What?”

Frankenstein looked flatly at him. “He gave me a place to sleep, clothed me, and fed me, that’s what happened.”

The car rolled forward again as the light turned. “So you’re married now is what you’re saying,” Ragar said.

“Oh please.” Frankenstein rolled his eyes and reached over to fiddle with the AC. “He was just being nice.”

Ragar glanced over at him with a hint of suspicion, but then he tugged at his mask and let out a breath, easing. “Whatever he was trying to pull, I’m glad you’re safe.” He turned forward to the leisurely passing road. “Don’t do that again.”

Frankenstein smirked and leaned an arm out the window. “No promises.”

“You’re the most unbelievable person I’ve ever met,” Ragar said.

* * *

The Monday afternoon stretched on and Frankenstein’s tired eyes squinted at his papers as he pulled them further back, the words blurring and shifting under the light. Habitually, he reached up to adjust his glasses only to pinch at nothing. Frankenstein patted himself down, checking all of his pockets only to discover an old receipt from the grocery store and some lint. “Shit…” he realized.

* * *

Raizel returned home from work that evening greeted by an empty, silent apartment once again. Sighing, he set down his laptop bag on the table and shuffled over to the guest bedroom. Opening the door and peering inside, there was still no one around, not that he was expecting anyone, but it still somehow disappointed him. He walked around the room simply to take up space among the unoccupied furniture. Flicking on the lights to the bathroom, he spotted a pair of glasses with golden frames near the sink and carefully picked it up, turning it in his hands. Suddenly, he found himself an excuse to go meet Frankenstein again.

It was simple enough to go on the university website and look up Professor Frankenstein’s lecture times and locations.

Raizel took the glasses and tucked it safely into his bag. For the first time in a while, he looked forward to the following day.

* * *

When Frankenstein walked into the lecture hall Tuesday morning, he had expected to see the usual students, some on their phones, some on their laptops or tablets and chatting or writing or sleeping. What he did not expect to see was Raizel, in his blinding white suit sitting in the sea of casually dressed students. Raizel sat as straight as a board with his hands folded demurely on the tiny lecture hall desk. He watched Frankenstein with wide, attentive eyes, much like an owl’s, that followed him back and forth. Raizel looked utterly out of place, but Frankenstein had a job to do, and so proceeded to deliver his biophysical chemistry lecture with his usual cadence and clarity that he liked to take pride in. Throughout the hole hour and a half, Raizel watched him like the second coming of Christ; at times, his gaze would catch Frankenstein’s, and Frankenstein wondered if any of his lecture was getting through to the literature-history major business man at all.

At the end of the lecture, Raizel stood up and shuffled out with the rest of the students, drawing little attention to himself as Frankenstein stayed for a few minutes to answer any lingering questions.

When at last he grabbed his messenger bag and headed out as students for the next class began to take their seats to wait for the next professor, he found Raizel standing and waiting by the door for him.

Frankenstein huffed a little through his nose, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. “You surprised me. What’s the occasion?”

Silently, Raizel bent down and fished around in the pockets of his bag before pulling out Frankenstein’s glasses and handing it to him. “You left it in the bathroom.”

Graciously, Frankenstein accepted and hooked the glasses on the collar of his shirt. “Thank you.” He smiled, honestly rather touched by all the trouble Raizel went through.

Raizel smiled back, appearing innumerably thankful for his thanks. Then, something changed in his expression. He spoke in a low whisper as he leaned in. “_ Professor _,do I not deserve a reward?” His eyes were lidded and captivating, like a siren inviting a sailor deeper into sea. Suddenly, Raizel seemed to shed that innocent, naive skin, and he looked entirely more suggestive.

Frankenstein wasn’t really sure what to make of it. “Um, sure. What would you like?”

* * *

“Number forty seven!” the white aproned person called out the window of the food truck.

Frankentein received the order of Coke and tteokbokki and brought it over to the shade under the tree where Raizel was seated on the slightly damp grass. He handed the warm box of food and chopsticks over to him and took a seat as well, unwrapping a straw and shoving it through the lid of the cup before placing it on the ground between them. “Is this all you really want?” Frankenstein asked. “We could have gone somewhere fancier, maybe with chairs. I won’t mind paying.”

Raizel shook his head as he opened the box and broke apart his wooden chopsticks. His eyes seemed to sparkle at the food. “I’ve always wanted to eat food from a food truck. This will be a new experience.”

“Really?”

Raizel nodded with great determination. Despite the messiness of the food and the rather casual seating, he still ate with an air of easy grace and dignity. Watching him, Frankenstein was convinced Raizel could make dumpster diving for dinner look elegant, but then the memory of him almost falling flat on his face the first time they had met resurfaced, and Frankenstein was reminded that, no, Raizel was human too, and that the elegance he displayed was very well practiced.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Frankenstein grabbed his soda and took a long sip, looking into the distance at nothing in particular: trees or students or birds or clouds perhaps. “Want some?” he offered to Raizel, holding out the cup and not paying too much attention. He only suddenly turned to look at Raizel when he heard the sound of sipping.

Raizel had not taken the cup from his hand. He had instead bent down to drink directly from the offering, eyes cast downward, emphasizing the softly feminine length of his lashes. Then, he looked up and saw Frankenstein looking at him. Clearly, he took notice of Frankenstein’s expression of slight surprise and immediately backed away again, becoming suddenly embarrassed. “Was I...not supposed to do that?” Raizel asked.

Frankenstein loosely smiled and laughed a little, bringing the straw back to his own lips. “It’s fine. Just unexpected.” He took a drink. He blinked. All he sucked in was air. Frankenstein looked at Raizel again. “You have a sweet tooth.”

Quickly, Raizel placed his tteokbokki down on the grass and stood up. “I apologize. I’ll buy you another soda.”

Frankenstein found his entire demeanor highly amusing. “No, no, no, sit down. It’s fine. I don’t drink soda or caffeine very much anyways.” He smiled amicably with a playful glint in his eyes. To Frankenstein, Raizel didn’t look or act very much like a CEO; there was, absolutely, no ambition for business that he could see in him, but perhaps Frankenstein was only making the mistake of judging a book by its cover. As far as he knew, Raizel could have been a ruthless, money hungry shark, swallowing all competition that dared oppose the company. But seeing Raizel’s soft embarrassment at having sipped down all of Frankenstein’s soda, he found that possibility difficult to believe.

When Raizel settled down again, Frankenstein asked, “What do you do in your free time? Besides wander around the university.”

The question seemed to startle Raizel. He thought about it for some time as if he himself miraculously didn’t really know how he spent his time. “I watch…” he said after some peaceful silence.

“You watch...shows? Movies?”

“The city. From my window.”

A rich, handsome man spending all of his free time just looking out of windows? Surely, that answer was too sad to be true, Frankenstein thought. “What about friends and family? Don’t you hang out with them from time to time?”

Raizel’s sunny mood became overcast and then dreary and stormy. A history turned and toiled under the surface of his eyes. The open, innocent ease he wore on his face closed to Frankenstein and was replaced with a withdrawn, personal tension. He looked like he was thinking very hard and very carefully about what was appropriate to say. “My...I’m an only child, and my parents, they...We haven’t spoken to each other for seven years.”

“Oh...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“No, it’s fine. There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Frankenstein.” Raizel looked straight up at him and said this with such a finality and firmness that Frankenstein could believe that Raizel was a CEO. He wanted Frankenstein to believe him, and so Frankenstein did.

Their conversation turned to Frankenstein—what he did and liked to do. Frankenstein was, among other things, rather diverse in his interests. There was science and his research, of course, but also sewing, cooking, cleaning—he very much liked to clean, a habit picked up from his scrupulous mother—and mixed martial arts—also encouraged by his mother.

“Frankenstein,” Raizel said at the hour came to a close. “I want to thank you.”

“What for?”

“It’s been a while since I’ve spent time with anyone like this. I appreciate it, truly.” Looking into the distance, Raizel had the appearance of utter sincerity, like this was a vulnerable secret he was choosing to tell only Frankenstein and only in this moment that would soon pass them by like leaves in the breeze.

Frankenstein smiled more tenderly than usual. “We can do this whenever. You have my number.”

Raizel’s face once again brightened and he nodded, the corners of his lips curling up pleasantly. He nodded. “I would like that.”

* * *

Raizel returned home that day with a case of food poisoning.


	3. Chapter 3

‘Not joining me for lunch on campus today?’ Frankenstein’s message read.

“I got food poisoning. ;-;’ was Raizel’s reply.

“Oh shit,” Frankenstein muttered to himself. He lowered his phone, feeling, all of a sudden, incredibly guilty. He had had his suspicions about the food truck at the time, but it had been well established and frequented by students enough that he didn’t think much of it. It appeared, however, that Raizel was a particularly unlucky person, or at least as unlucky as a person born with a million dollars already in their bank account could be. Spending little time dwelling, he dialed Ragar. “We’re going to the supermarket after work,” he told him.

* * *

After inelegantly dragging himself out of the bathroom once again, Raizel flopped down and rolled over on the couch. He lay still and stared up at the ceiling, feeling chilled despite the cozy temperature control of his apartment. The fever he was sporting made his mind hazy like he was moving through the sluggish molasses of a dream world. The doorbell had to ring three or so times before he noticed and languidly shuffled over to welcome his guests. “Ah...Frankenstein.” He glanced away, unused to being seen in such an indecorous state. Raizel hadn’t even bothered to dress in his suit, still in his pajamas, a sheer pale salmon silk. He was, at the moment, utterly uncool.

Frankenstein only smiled sympathetically and lifted a paper bag. “I got you some stuff that’s easy to eat: crackers, toast, gelatin, bananas. Also some Gatorade if you’ve lost a lot of fluid. I’ll make you some porridge too.”

“You’re...cooking for me? Here?”

“Ragar will help too.” Frankenstein stepped comfortably inside as if this was no different from his own home.

Ragar, tall and lithe and looking at Raizel with hard, intimidating eyes above his strange black mask, also carried in a paper bag. He stared at Raizel with the potent friendliness of sharp stone or a jagged papercut.

Raizel thought Ragar looked like the type of person who carried a gun and the type of person who would not hesitate to shoot someone with said gun, but perhaps that was the fever talking. He was suddenly very glad that it was Frankenstein who had interviewed him and not Ragar, because from the looks of it, Raizel was sure that Ragar would have let him smash his face onto the floor when he tripped, or, better yet, smash his face onto the floor for him if he hadn’t had the fortune of falling on a shoelace himself.

Ragar followed Frankenstein in and stood by him like a bodyguard or perhaps like a large wolf that had been somehow tamed but would maul anyone who dared look at its master wrong. Raizel, for one, did not want to get mauled and so sheepishly looked away and returned to his seat on the couch.

“Rest. I’ll tell you when it’s ready,” Frankenstein called from the kitchen, authoritative and almost motherly.

Raizel leaned back. He turned his head to the window, watching not the city outside but the reflection of the lights and mundane humdrum of his apartment on the glass. Once again, his home was filled with people and activity, and he smiled privately as Frankenstein and Ragar puttered around, bringing out ingredients, looking for pots, turning on the sink, fiddling with the electric stove. Food poisoning wasn’t so bad, Raizel thought, if it brought him company like this, if it filled his home like this.

Eventually, Raizel’s eyes slipped closed and he leaned his cheek against the back of the couch, dozing off listening to the quiet sounds of pleasantly unremarkable chatter and living.

He was only suddenly awoken when he felt a warm hand against his warm forehead.

“Hm, you’re still a little hot,” Frankentein mumbled to himself.

Raizel’s eyes shot open wide. He could feel his face heat further.

Frankenstein jumped back. “Sorry, I shouldn’t touch you without permission like that.”

Raizel lowered his eyes and hummed. “I don’t mind...I don’t mind, Frankenstein,” he murmured.

Frankenstein smiled down at him with a tenderness Raizel had rarely ever come across in his life, especially directed at him. “Food’s ready,” Frankenstein told him, and they took their seats at the dining table.

Ragar was looking at him again, and the feeling that it evoked could only be described as judgment. He, with razor focus, was assessing Raizel’s character, how he spoke, how he moved, how he held himself. Raizel realised, then, that Ragar really was guarding Frankenstein, as if Raizel could pose any kind of threat to him, as if Ragar was bounded to Frankenstein for life.

As dinner proceeded, however, Ragar began to ease, and so did Raizel.

“Sorry the porridge is a little bland,” Frankenstein said, absently stirring his own serving. “But I didn’t want to upset your stomach any more than it already is. Perhaps I can make you something more exciting once you’re better, Raizel.” He sighed but was still in good spirits. “It seems I’ve been causing you so much trouble ever since we’ve met. Haha…”

“Frankenstein, it is no trouble,” Raizel said clearly and seriously.

Frankenstein gave him a wry, amused look. “First, I throw up on you, ruining your clothes. Then, you lug my dead body back to your place, tuck me in bed, and buy me expensive clothes and expensive food. Then, after that, you return my glasses for me. And what do you get in return? Food poisoning.” He leaned his face into a hand. “I must be some sort of bad luck.”

“Meeting you has been the luckiest thing to have happened to me in a long time...” The words had left Raizel’s mouth before he could really think about what he was saying in his sleepy, hazy mind. He slowly stirred his soup, staring down at it as it went around and around. “Oh.” Raizel looked up, then down again. “I mean…” He really couldn’t find another way to put it. He had been honest and there was no taking that back, so he only smiled a little shyly, a little sadly, and let his words become lost to him.

“I think I’m lucky to have met you too,” Frankenstein said.

Raizel’s eyes went wide. He looked at Frankenstein with a renewed wonder and appreciation. Something giddy fluttered in his chest, and he quickly returned to his soup, sipping it with vigor as if to distract himself again from being flustered.

Frankenstein laughed a charming laugh. “Who knows what would have happened if it was someone else who kidnapped me that night?”

“Indeed.” Ragar stoically nodded. He was keeping a hand always on his mask, revealing as little of his face a possible as he ate. Raizel found that very peculiar, but the curt acknowledgement from Ragar made him feel better about himself. And then, when Ragar continued on to say, “I believe I should thank you then, Raizel, for being an honorable person,” Raizel could not help the fluttery feeling again as he hid his rising smile behind a spoonful of porridge.

“Hm?” Frankenstein’s eyes darted to Raizel’s bowl. “You should eat the green onions,” he told him.

Raizel too looked down at his bowl. He had avoided all the greens.

“They’re good for you,” Frankenstein emphasized.

Raizel’s eyes unenthusiastically drifted away to the side.

* * *

“I don’t understand why I can’t just run these experiments on myself. It’s not like it’ll hurt anybody.” Frankenstein paced around on the lawn in front of the pillars of the university library, phone held to his face with the conviction of war. “No, listen, no one else has to get involved … Me? So what? It’ll be worth it even if that does happen, which it  _ won’t _ , because I know my shit.” Suddenly, after some chatter on the other end, Frankenstein came to a halt, standing stock still and crushing the phone to the side of his face. “What? You can’t do this to me! If I have to print even a single page of that nonsense, I swear to god I—” He gasped audibly and dramatically. Frankenstein lowered his phone. “They hung up on me.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before sitting down on the stone bench next to Raizel and picking up his little box of precut fruit, shoving a few grapes into his mouth. “You know, if I had the means to my own lab, I wouldn’t have to deal with all these admins and lab techs telling me what I can or can’t do.” He looked up at Raizel. “You know where I’d build it?”

Raizel shook his head.

“Under my house, like a mad scientist.” He laughed but then suddenly cut it off, face falling into a somber seriousness as he looking into something far, far away. “I used to work in a private lab, but there was...a falling out.” He leaned back and laughed again, raising his head, but he didn’t sound very humored. “It was a shitshow. It was—Have you ever worked with a maniac before? My colleague, at the time, he was—” Frankenstein exhaled, deflating and closing his eyes in a tense, exhausting memory. He didn’t complete his sentence, instead picking up a slice of honeydew and saying, “But I guess at least one good thing came from it; I met Ragar.”

“How long have you known him?” Raizel asked gently.

“Seven to eight years or so,” Frankenstein said. He popped the honeydew into his mouth. “He’s always worn that mask, if you’re wondering. Says he likes the style; I think it’s just his wrestling costume.” Frankenstein smiled easily and huffed. “He might look a bit scary—people have called the police on him more than once, believe me—but he’s a pretty okay guy.” Frankenstein turned to Raizel suddenly, smirking. “But don’t tell him I said that.”

Raizel smiled back gently. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good.”

Once again, their quiet lunch together drew to a close. As Raizel stood up, readying to head back to work, he thought to ask, “Frankenstein, when is your birthday? I would like to get you something.”

Frankenstein looked at him in pleasant surprise. “You really don’t have to. You’ve given me plenty already.”

“I insist. It would make me happy to give you something—anything you’d like.”

Frankenstein folded up his messenger bag, threw the strap over his shoulder and stood up as well. He gave him a look like Raizel was being downright ridiculous and yet Frankenstein did not mind that. “My birthday’s in two weeks, exactly.” He bent down to pick up the empty plastic fruit box to throw into the recycling. “If you must get me something, get me a packet of instant ramen,” and that was that.

* * *

That weekend, Raizel went to the grocery store. In between the colorful air conditioned aisles, he was confronted by a tall and long mosaic of plastic and cardboard packaging. He stared at them, bewildered and confused. Frankenstein hadn’t specified exactly what flavor or brand or color he liked, and Raizel found himself at the mercy of the multitudes: chicken, beef, pork, seafood, vegetarian; mild, hot, extra hot; blue, pink, purple, red, orange, yellow. Soft plastic wrapping or cylindrical cardboard bowls? Every crinkle in every plastic covering glinted against the lights, and every mascot or cartoon smiled or winked at Raizel with the promise of being the best of the bunch.

His eyes roamed over all the options. Raizel could not risk disappointing Frankenstein on his birthday, and so he made the decision to not make a decision at all. Swiftly, he sought out a shopping cart and proceeded to march down the aisle and pluck one of each thing off the shelf. He stacked each package tenderly and neatly until his cart overflowed with winking, smiling advertisements, the small text of nutritional information, and the glint and crinkle of colorful plastic packaging.

“Um, would you like some bags Sir?” the cashier asked.

Raizel nodded.

* * *

Raizel’s phone pinged with a message: ‘We’re celebrating at my place.’

The address Frankenstein texted him was automatically inputted into his navigation app, and Raizel drove into the young evening, the trunk of his car loaded with five full grocery bags.

* * *

“We already have food. Why did you tell him to bring more?” Ragar said from the kitchen, glancing up briefly as Frankenstein led Raizel into the living room from the courtyard. A pink apron was fitted snugly around his clothes as Ragar returned his attention to the snapping and sizzling saucepan.

“I said  _ a  _ packet of ramen,” Frankenstein said, looking over his shoulder to Raizel with eyes delighted by Raizel’s continued antics.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a variety.”

“Clearly.” A short puff of air punctuated his observation as Frankenstein set down his three bags on the granite counter separating the kitchen from the living room.

Raizel followed suit with his two.

“What are we going to do with all of that?” Ragar asked, still busying himself with kitchen affairs. It caught them all by surprise when there was a whoosh and a large flare. Flames from the stove threatened to lick Frankenstein’s ceiling. Ragar jumped back and fluttered about, a mild panic widening his eyes to better reflect the red-orange fire as he turned on the sink to fill the closest spare container with water, in this case, a plastic bin that once held marinade for some chicken.

“Nonono—” Frankenstein jumped over the counter like it was something he regularly did and grabbed a large metal lid, and, with a loud clang, smacked it over the pan and switched off the heat, capturing and snuffing out the flames. He turned to Ragar seriously. “ _ Never _ throw water onto a grease fire. The water sinks to the bottom and instantly evaporates, and you’ll get an explosion of oil and fire.”

Ragar stared back at him. “I see. My apologies...”

Frankenstein bowed his head in a lighthearted, tired way, letting out a sound that was both a sigh and chuckle. Then, he looked up again. “Raizel, have you ever had instant noodles before or are they beneath you?

“I have never had them before.”

“Great. Pick one you think you’ll like, and I’ll make it for you.”

“Is the ramen not your birthday gift?”

“My birthday wish is for you to eat instant ramen,” Frankenstein declared with a finality Raizel could not argue against. And so he did as he was told, rummaging through the bags, once again confronted with making a decision he had avoided once in the supermarket.

Sifting through the packages, Raizel had no better idea of what was considered good or bad, and therefore made his arbitrary decision based on whatever looked the prettiest to him. He arrived, then, at noodles clad in black colored plastic, and what had caught his eye was simply the round yellow chicken cartoon on the front winking at him with a little red bow on its head. It was cute, so he would eat this one. Had he paid better attention when handing it over to Frankenstein, perhaps he would have noticed the little print informing consumers that the spice level was five chilli peppers out of five.

When Frankenstein cooked the noodles and emptied the dark red-orange sauces and flavorings into it, they could smell the spice with their eyes.

They took their seats at a small white round table in the kitchen just big enough for three people to gather and looked at the bowl of ramen situated neatly in the center. Frankenstein reached out and pushed it slightly closer to Raizel across from him, an offering.

Raizel graciously accepted, nodding his thanks. With his usual controlled grace, he cradled some noodles with his chopsticks and had a bite. He set his chopsticks down.

Frankenstein looked at him.

He looked back. “...Spicy.” Raizel could not suppress his quiet cough, and as much as he tried to reign in his his body’s natural reactions to setting his own mouth on fire with the fury of a thousand suns, he still found his eyes watering and his ears ringing. He was weeping and coughed again.

“Is it that bad?” Frankenstein pulled the bowl towards himself and gave the noodles a doubtful look before picking up Raizel’s chopsticks and trying them himself. He stared at the bowl and coughed. “...Spicy.” He too began to weep.

Ragar’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed himself back and stood up to silently walk over to the sink and fill two glasses with water to bring back to the table.

Frankenstein wiped a tear from his eye. “Milk would be better,” he said but nonetheless gratefully grabbed the cool glass and gulped down whatever relief it could provide.

Raizel did the same, but his tongue, lips, and throat still burned and hissed angrily at him. “Thank you, Ragar,” he said after his glass was completely drained.

Frankenstein sighed and thunked the glass down on the table. “What are we going to do with this?” He motioned at the ramen.

Ragar, with a completely flat expression, slid the bowl over to himself and pulled his mask down. His fingers, long and elegant, held the chopsticks with an air of dignity. “Food should not be wasted,” he informed them with quiet and subtle determination and then swiftly finished the ramen as if it was nothing at all.

Frankenstein leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. “Oh wow, look at that.”

Ragar was silent and still for a few seconds, the others watching him with bated breath to see what fantastical feat he would perform next. Then, he got up and strode over to the fridge. He opened it, took out a milk carton, unscrewed the cap, and proceeded to tilt milk down his throat as if his life depended on it.

“Don’t drink from the  _ carton _ !” Frankenstein suddenly stood up, his chair sliding back. By the time he got over to Ragar and swiped the milk from him, the carton was empty and Ragar had given himself a small white mustache which he quickly wiped off with a nearby napkin on the counter. Frankenstein shook the carton to hear the sound of sad, sad emptiness and stared at his friend with disbelief.

Ragar pulled up his mask meekly. “I will buy you more milk.”

After putting the empty bowl into the sink to wash later, Frankenstein and Ragar set the main course on the table, mostly American style comfort food—golden roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, apple pie, macaroni—but there was also a plate of Korean pajeon (courtesy of the kitchen fire), a pancake with seafood and scallions neatly cut into eight pieces.

They ate in pleasant, quiet company, talking of nothing and everything. Raizel found his chest fluttering again. He silently basked in the soothing warmth of simple human interaction. Good food and good people—he didn’t know if he had ever been happier than this and smiled privately behind his piece of chicken breast held up with his fork before devouring it as contentedly as the other two, who were nodded at their own successful efforts in cooking up a birthday meal.

Ragar set his utensils down. “Drinks,” he seemed to suddenly remember and stood up to procure a tall, dark, unopened bottle of Gosling’s Family Reserve Old Rum from a cabinet along with three cups. He set the cups down on the table and began to pour.

Raizel hastily held up his hand when he got to the third cup. “Oh I don’t—I don’t drink…”

Ragar glanced over at him. A hard assessing look passed over his eyes again briefly before he nodded and set the cup aside on the nearby counter and returning to his seat.

Raizel stiffened at the thunk of the bottle on the table.

Frankenstein raised his eyebrows curiously at him but didn’t say much about Raizel’s lack of a drinking habit as he clinked glasses with Ragar and easily downed the rum while Ragar leisurely sipped a bit at a time.

“Ragar seems to know your home very well.” Raizel continued eating, entirely avoiding the green beans on his plate.

“He visits often,” Frankenstein said. “He might as well live here.” His lips lifted into a crooked smile and he huffed, pouring himself another glass of the aubergine colored liquid.

“ _ Someone  _ should look after you, Frankenstein, lest you do something...unexpected.” Ragar looked at him sharply from above his glass.

“Like disappear in the middle of the night to wake up in some strange man’s bed?” Frankenstein motioned playfully with drink in hand at Raizel, causing his alcohol to swish gently.

“Precisely.”

“You did a real good job of looking after me that night, Ragar. So good that you didn’t even know Raizel whisked me away off my feet and took me to the very top of his tower.” Frankenstein laughed a little and finished the food on his plate.

When all that was left were crumbs and bones and only the memory of food, Frankenstein looked at Raizel with a potent suave and an intoxicated grin, utterly seductive if Raizel had ever seen seduction. “Room for dessert?” Frankenstein asked.

“Oh...yes.”

“Great.”

It was Ragar who brought out the small cake, just enough for three people to each get a generous slice of airy white cream and colorful fruit topped with an accent of dark chocolate.

Before either Frankenstein or Raizel could dig in, however, Ragar held out his hand. “We must first sing the traditional ‘Happy Birthday,’” Ragar stated seriously.

“We  _ really _ don’t.” Frankenstein was giving Ragar that same look of disbelief he had given him for the milk, like Ragar was regularly full of antics and Frankenstein was regularly privy to them. And from the look Ragar gave back to Frankenstein, the same could be said vice versa.

“I would like to sing ‘Happy Birthday,’” Raizel timidly interjected.

Ragar slammed his hand down on the table. “Then it is settled, two to one. We will sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”

“Oh my god.”

Despite Frankenstein’s exasperation at their personal yet enthusiastic fanfare, Raizel’s face brightened, and he was filled with a novel sort of glee. He couldn’t recall the last time he had experienced a gathering like this, much less a birthday one, and couldn’t remember at all if he had ever sung ‘Happy Birthday.’

When they began their tune, and Frankenstein lowered his forehead into his hand to save himself from such sappy embarrassment, it struck Raizel how unpracticed he was next to Ragar, whose voice was smooth, silky, and graceful; Ragar looked like someone who was good at everything, who could never be caught off guard, but this, Raizel knew, was not true. Raizel had never had the occasion to sing before and so his voice rasped and fell in awkward tones and cracked at the high note, but he tried his best, and this earned him an amused, pleased look from Frankenstein when he finally looked up and smiled at them with genuineness that struck Raizel silent.

Frankenstein blew air out his nose. “Thanks…” he begrudgingly admitted, and they could finally enjoy the cake waiting for their appetites.

Time passed as effortlessly as water, and they talked about stupid mundane things like work and business and played stupid childish games like chopsticks (Raizel lost, always), two truths and a lie (Ragar broke three ribs, not two), and dare (just dare, no truth). The bottle of alcohol was drained down to its last quarter.

It was Ragar’s turn to dare someone. He turned to Frankenstein. Completely flatly, he said, “Kiss someone at this table.”

Raizel’s eyes shot up.

Frankenstein scoffed. “Too easy.” Then, he lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. “There.”

Ragar blinked very slowly at him, as if to make a point with his eyes alone. “Someone other than yourself,” he corrected.

Frankenstein leaned back in his seat with a dramatic sweep. “Too late! You should have said that the first time.”

If Raizel were honest, he would say that he was rather disappointed. But Raizel was not an honest man and so instead simply nodded demurely in agreement.

Frankenstein leaned forward again, but in his clumsy drunkenness, knocked over the bottle of rum with his arm. He quickly leaned over to catch it, but it slipped out of his hand anyway and shattered loudly on the floor, sending glass and dark liquid in every direction.

Raizel flinched, and suddenly, the comfortable mood he was in evaporated, like mist clearing, a veil lifting. He stared, statue still, at the jagged broken glass sharp enough to cut, and he was reminded of something that he had never forgotten. He was reminded that he was unlike the good people sitting at this table, because he was no good person.

“What a mess,” Frankenstein sighed. He peered across the table. “Raizel, are you okay?”

Raizel snapped his eyes up at him. “I am fine. I am fine.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, but it is late. I should...go home before long.” He glanced at the floor, cautious to not step on any glass and retreating into himself.

“Oh…” Frankenstein smiled sleepily. “Thank you for coming.”

Raizel nodded. “I’ve had a very good time, Frankenstein.”

Frankenstein’s eyes seemed to shimmer under the bright white kitchen lights. “You know, you’re a pretty okay guy.” His smile turned into a grin. “But don’t tell you I said that,” he whispered, leaning forward over the table.

Raizel looked at him for a long, gentle moment, like the rest of the world beyond that chilled evening did not exist. The kitchen, the food, the table, and the three people spending the night away doing simple people things was momentarily their entire universe. Raizel smiled. “My lips are sealed,” he said.

* * *

“The H through M series have been failures.” He tapped his aged fingers, bearing heavy silver and jeweled rings, against the armrest and spun in his leather chair in his lonesome room. A low, weighted sigh left him as he sat in silence. Then, he smiled. “Professor, you think you are quite clever with your ciphers, but it won’t matter. I will only eventually surpass your foolishness.”

In a nearby lab, another person in another tank quietly perished, one of many in many experiments.

**Author's Note:**

> The most I’ve read of 50 Shades of Grey is the Wikipedia plot summary, so forgive me for not knowing the intricacies of 50 Shades lore.


End file.
